Run Anya, run!

So there we were. Me standing braless and bootless at airport security while an overly enthusiastic woman jabbed a wand at me, and Anya standing to the side hosing herself laughing at me.

By now, it was ten minutes past gate closing time, and I was determined not to miss that bloody flight. The wand Nazi finally concluded that my bra posed no threat to national security (wonder if that would have been the case if I was a double D cup?) and we were free to go. Of course, we didn't have a moment to waste buggering around with lacing up boots and repositioning bras, so I grabbed my stuff, grabbed Anya and then ran like the hounds of Hades were snapping at our heels.

Take a moment to appreciate the scene... A wild eyed woman madly dashing through the airport with her bra wrapped around her neck like a feather boa, her big boots clutched in her hand, her feet only covered in socks, and a sprog being dragged along behind her. I was ready to dive tackle anyone who got in our way, but the crowds parted before us. Funny that.

It was at this point that I heard, "Ma'am. Stop!! Come back!"

To hell with that! What did security want now? For me to hand over my knickers for scanning? Cavity search? "Run Anya, run! They're not taking us alive!"

Alas, Anya was tired and needed the loo. Not a great combination. I soon felt a hand on my shoulder and thought, "That's it. The jig is up. The bloody mad English bastards have won." I spun around, ready to face my tormentor only to be faced with an out of breath old lady, who was holding out my travel wallet, which contained our passports and all my forex. "You dropped this," she said. Score: Mad English Bastards 1 - Bianca 0.

After thanking her profusely, we belted to the gate and got through a mere second before the gate closed. And yes, I put on my boots and bra before take-off.